


Midnight Rhetoric

by AmerValk



Series: Dragon Age 2 f!Hawke/Anders One Shots [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 21:10:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13644510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmerValk/pseuds/AmerValk
Summary: Firenze Hawke was forced to watch as her sister was taken into the Circle. Livid and frustrated, she turns to Anders for a little advice and rhetoric.





	Midnight Rhetoric

Her mug was empty, just like Bethany was gone. Varric was attempting to be sympathetic. He at least knew to keep the drinks coming as Firenze demanded them in a childish display of belligerence. Still, there were always times when Hawke was too much. Even for him.

“Hawke, this isn’t the way to deal with your sister being taken by the Templars. We both know it. You should go home to your mother, she needs you.” Firenze was named for the bright tenor of her hair, visible even in the dim light of the tavern rooms. She burned with a passion filled by extremes,

“Anders was right,” she nearly sang. Her voice was a determined octave of hate and loathing. “Templars are nothing but jailers and Bethany is a prisoner. In those circles, I can’t believe mother let this happen!” She seemed driven as she pushed her empty mug forward and it was quickly refilled. Varric openly rolled his eyes,

“Not you too.” He lamented, emotionally and mentally exhausted at the plight of mages.Before meeting Anders, Varric knew little of their struggle being a dwarf. However, after the Deep Roads, he heard Blondie’s entire manifesto. Hawke had always given him a sympathetic ear, but this was more. His dwarven perception heard it as they grew more intimate in the ancient dwarven paths. Hawke became enraptured between the dynamic of templar and mage, fluent on the systemic injustice as Blondie was fond of calling it. Anders was helpless to her attentions, so openly flattered that the two became fixated on the subject and each other. By the time the reached the surface, Hawke had stopped listening to Varric’s advice to stay out it. Now, somewhere between the pints of ale, she began re-enacting a conversation she had been having with herself.

“Look just be careful, that boy is going nowhere good.” Hawke’s glare was withering as he warned her about the mage. It was apparent he was unstable, and still Hawke refused to observe it.

“They have my sister!” She exclaimed, “Those thugs are holding her captive and domesticating my Bethany. Turning her into a mage pet, like the other good circle mages.” Varric was either too drunk, or not drunk enough to deal with this facet of his best friend as she drowned and sublimated her frustrations in Anders’ rhetoric.

“I read page 35 as well. You don’t need to quote Blondie to me.” Before she could reply, the very words forming on her tongue, her blue eyes imploring him with accusations and a challenge Varric slammed down his mug, it shattered,

“I’m cutting you off, Hawke and before you forget, I take care of you on my tab. Go home to your mother and make sure your Uncle doesn’t sell her for more Qunari cheese.” His display startled Firenze whose expression was equal parts impressed and upset. She frowned as she realized he was right, or at least that she had enough drink.

“Fine, mother,” she drawled, mocking him before her face shifted into a bright grin, “You’re always taking care of us Varric. I should remember to thank you properly.” Her face was expressive as she seemingly recovered from her tantrum, but Varric knew this was not over. Something still simmered beneath her comley blue eyes. She stood firmly, though with a distinct drunken sway as she stumbled away from the table.

“Don’t worry,” she said with a teasing wink before kissing Varric’s forehead with a false reverence.

“I’ll go for a walk in the cold night air, maybe I’ll find home.” She mused. Either Hawke stumbled or performed a bold acrobatic stunt down the narrow stairwell. Her feet caught on a stray rock as she tumbled forward before re-orietning herself and landing at the front with practiced grace and bow as the tavern cheered. Back in his room, Varric chuckled. Maybe she could handle Blondie, if that’s where she was going. If anyone could handle him it would be Firenze Hawke.

~~~~

‘Some people were born lucky,’ Hawke thought as she balanced on a small ledge and strolled towards Darktown. She did a small dip before losing her balance, 

“Perhaps I drank more than I thought I did,” Firenze allowed herself to admit, catching herself before she fell down all the stairs that connected Lowtown and Darktown. “Besides, as Fenris says, there is no law in these parts. I ought to pay attention.” She attempted to focus as she strolled through the slums of Darktown. However her anger toward the Templars and the memory of Anders as he read his manifesto lingered in her mind, distracting her. There was something fetching about his lips as he recited words that he held so dear that made her forget anything else was in the room.

“Hey Red!” A loud voice shouted as she looked up from the ground and saw several thugs in front of her. Mentally she counted them, eyeing each of them for equipment, potions, armor and poisons. “Pretty girls like you shouldn’t be alone in Darktown, someone might take advantage of you.”

“But, I only count three of you. You think just three of you would keep me amused,” she poked and prodded at them before she crouched into a tight stance and charged the leader. The others scattered from the force before Hawke leapt back. Even though Hawke was sluggish, her body responded to practiced stances of combat with muscle memory as he dodged the clumsy fighters. She didn’t need to kill them, merely help them get to sleep as she knocked the first body into the wall. His head hit the concrete with distinct thud and he fell unconscious.

‘Two,’ she observed. Cheerful as one of the remaining fighters attempted to rouse his friend before running. Her twin blades were drawn in defiance to the night, to Templars, and to the whole damned state of Kirkwall. With only one left, he fled to find an easier target. Hawke smirked as she sheathed both her short swords. Then, out of nowhere, a bolt pierced her arm. She dodged the others but it bit into her flesh. 

“Andraste’s Tits!” She shrieked as she concealed herself behind a statue, “Why does that always happen to me? I’ll just creep the rest of the way I suppose.” Hawke disappeared into the shadows of Darktown. Still, she felt less inebriated as the bolt throbbed in her arm. The pain of it’s piercing tip keeping her awake before she carefully removed it. Anders was close, his house was in the corner of the slums, equidistant to his patients and close enough to an escape tunnel if Templar’s came knocking. However, it was far from the entrance and Firenze had to wind her way carefully through to avoid further confrontation.

Out of instinct she went to pick the lock, but stopped her hands before she broke into Anders’ clinic. He had enough to worry about with Templars. Showing restraint, Hawke knocked before she called his name through the wooden doors.

“Anders!” She slurred, adrenaline permitting Firenze to ignore the pain her arm from the crossbow bolt. “Hey, it’s Hawke!” She continued, listening for distinct shuffling of feet and click of a lock as the healer opened the door. The candle cast a soft light on his face as he squinted disapprovingly.

“Are you out here alone?” His voice was wracked with concern as he ushered Hawke inside. Her eyes were adjusted to the dark, so when the lamps were suddenly lit she blinked rapidly , rubbing at her eyes in reaction to the increased stimuli. The soreness in her arm began to return, throbbing where the bolt hit it. Firenze genuinely hoped it was not poisoned.

“Sweetheart, you really should be more careful. Even if you are Hawke, Darktown is dangerous during the best of times,” Anders commented as he turned his full attention to her. She loved his eyes, they were a bright golden brown. “Is everything alright?” He inquired.

“For Kirkwall,” Hawke replied, “On the way here, some thugs had the gall to attack me.” She sighed, as if the wound in her arm was a mere irritation. She flinched as Anders spied the offending wound, and examined the puncture.

“The bolt could have been poisoned you know. If for my sake alone, please try to be careful. You aren’t immortal. Can I take a look at the wound?” He inquired, his voice somewhere between anxious and earnest. Anders’ fingers brush against the skin on the back of her neck, it was a gesture that was entirely professional but laden with an intimate familiarity.

“Go right ahead, you can always undress me,” Hawke teased. His finger’s grew still, almost nervous as he seemed to discern how intimate this situation could be. ‘Shit!’ she realized, as Anders froze up. She had scared him again. Perhaps the bolt was better poisoned. She found herself drowning in dread until he chuckled quietly. Hawke sighed, utterly relieved as he quipped back,

“One day, you might have to make good on that promise, Hawke.” Her cheeks grew flushed as he began to loosen the chords of the armor at her shoulders. Anders untied the armor with experienced efficiency and helped her shift out of the armor. 

“I’ll need you to sit down,” he commanded benevolently. Hawke didn’t mind following his instructions as she rested on a simple wooden bench. “I am sorry to do this,” Anders continued, tearing at her sleeve to reveal the puncture wound.

“I’ll make you pay for that. It was my favorite shirt,” she complained, her voice tinged false melodrama. She watched his face intently as Anders examined it, checking for any sign of infection of festering. His eyes were focused on the injury and Hawke found herself admiring the point in his nose and high cheekbones. His narrow, angular face was picturesque as he replied,

“Would you rather I had removed it entirely, then?” He met her eyes and they shone with a human desire, observing her with scrutiny. He smirked, assured as she quirked her lips into a tempting smile. 

“Is it your turn to make promises that you can’t keep, Anders? You know I have a thing for crazy.” At first he frowned, being directly called out by Hawke in such a blunt manner, but that expression flipped into a grin as he realized what she was really saying was ‘I accept you.’ He coughed nervously before healing energies washed over her and he stated,

“I don’t think the bolt was poisoned, but if it was, that should cover it. May I ask you something? I want a serious answer,” Anders demanded, knowing she preferred to obscure her meaning in well-placed wit and glib taunting. She tilted her head to the side, Hawke’s bright red hair made more vibrant by the lighting. 

“Fine, pretty boy, ask me?” She said, her words slightly slurred. She flashed her trademark smirk. He hesitated before the words simply stumbled out,

“Why did you come here, tonight, that is?” Hawke was terrified. Anders was more than her friend. She found herself thinking about him, even when she did not mean to and blushed. Then, she remembered why she came. Her features grew grave and her face was almost white as she whispered,

“The Templars took Bethany. I thought if anyone could understand, it was you.” Without a second thought, he embraced Hawke. She tried to confine the shaking to her hands as he held her close and soothed,

“I’m so sorry, Firenze.” She was startled as he used her first name. Hawke wanted to smile, cry, and panic all at once. Even though Bethany was still gone, she felt a comforting balm wash over her. 

“Whenever you need me, I’m here,” he assured her. Firenze sensed he wanted to say more. Words were on the tip of his tongue, and she was torn between coaxing them out and drowning her own malaise.

“Do you have more ale?” Hawke asked at first, attempting to deflecting the emotions that threatened to bubble to the surface. Anders glared at her disapprovingly before he sighed,

“No, this is not a tavern, it’s a clinic. But I might have some wine.” It took a few moments, but he managed to locate a dusty bottle of wine. At first, he hesitated, before he poured them both a small glass. Hawke gratefully accepted the cup before taking a deep drink,

“When I returned home, Ser Cullen was polluting my house and my sister was in those horrid circle robes. She even pretended to be happy for her enslavement, that it was better this way. And the Knight-Captain reminded me that harboring an apostate is a crime, and that I was being spared for our aid to the Templars. It felt so dirty and awful.” She found herself looking into Anders eyes, discerning empathy, compassion, and even a little bit of rage. He took a corresponding drink, noting it was rather bitter vintage. It must have been from Tevinter.

“Complicit is the word. That thug, and there was nothing you could do,” Anders answered, “Other than assaulting a Templar I suppose. You know I had cat that once killed a templar when it became possessed by a rage demon.” A rare smile lit up his features, “I really liked that cat. I’m sorry, Firenze. I didn’t mean to make light of this.” She giggled, blushing as he used her name once more. 

“I like when you use my name, Anders,” Hawke admitted. She drank the final swig from the glass and was startled as she burped. As the pain subsided in her arm, she felt the inebriation creep back into her bloodstream once more.

“Do you think she’ll be alright? She won’t end up Tranquil, will she?” She asked, almost desperate for any kind of panacea for this anger she felt towards everything right now, everything but Anders. She watched as words formed from his lips, like poetry.

“Bethany will be safe. Most mages are spared the wrath of the Chantry as long as you keep clear of the Templars and stay subservient. The truth is that circles are more complicated. It is not a simple prison. They do educate mages. It is the duty of the First Enchanter to guide them along the correct path. That’s the problem, though. There are positive things, but that only perpetuates the systemic oppression. In order for the circles to be taken down the gilded cage must be destroyed. Only then can the circle be revealed the jail it is,” he declared. He was so confident as he spoke with a driving passion that Hawke was falling for him with each syllable. The wine made his rhetoric flow with greater ease. He saw that Hawke was staring and grew quiet,

“I’m sorry, Firenze. I...should not use your sister to further my rhetoric. Who knows what risk that could put to her? Are you alright?” Firenze smirked as she inched closer to Anders. His skin was flushed from the wine and Hawke’s proximity. 

“Don’t be. I love when you talk like that,” Firenze confessed. Anders did not distance himself from her, as he usually did when he realized that they were flirting.

“You do? No one ever wants to listen to this. They simply tell me to shut up.” Hawke was fervent in her pursuit. She was certain Anders was the one she wanted. Even if Isabella was deliciously curvy and Fenris made her curious. The way that he looked at her now transfixed her entirely.

“I care for you and your cause, not just your boyish good looks,” she articulated, her voice light and alluring. She watched as Anders seemed to finally understand her intentions. He hesitated, a dulcet need filled his voice,

“Sweetheart, I can’t--” He began to apologize once more, for the hundredth time. Hawke was tired of being rejected by the one person she truly wanted.

“Then, let me have this if I can’t have you,” she persuaded him, drawing her fingers along the stubble of his jawline. His breath hitched as her touch hypnotized him. He couldn’t shift away, not as she moved to kiss him, fascinated by her bright blue eyes. Anders’ hands dared to linger at her waist. His fingers curved feeling her taut, lean muscle and the warmth of her skin through the fabric. He was ready for this mistake and licked his lips in anticipation.Then, she slumped over abruptly. Her head falling into his chest as sleep took Hawke. 

Anders’ mouth was suddenly dry and unclaimed as she snored quietly. He could think again, frustrated but relieved as she leaned into him. Even if he wanted her, he could not have her, Justice would not allow it. His lips brushed against her forehead, hoping this would be enough as he lifted her carefully. Hawke did not stir as he moved her to the small cot in his room. Her red hair was a siren call, tempting and taunting him as she shifted in her sleep, adjusting to the firm mattress. Anders forced himself to look away. He did not want to know how close they had come tonight, or how her perfect lips would haunt him.

**Author's Note:**

> I found myself really into Anders and Mage Rights after my first playthrough. He's probably my favorite LI as well. So I have been working on this for the past week. I hope you enjoy! I am a little nervous about this fic and how it turned out despite my adoration for it.


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